Swan Princess
by Best Damn Avocado
Summary: Sherlock Holmes attends a performance of Swan Lake with his parents and finds himself intrigued by the lead Ballerina. Natlock oneshot.


_December 21st, 2002_

Sherlock's punishment could've been worse. Mycroft insisted it was a favor but as far as the younger Holmes was concerned, there was very little difference between the two. Mycroft Holmes was always asking favors.

At any rate, Sherlock could stand an evening of _Swan Lake_ in the London Coliseum if it made his parents happy and got his older brother off his back. He could be relentlessly annoying when he put his mind to it.

Of course, in exchange for this so-called 'favor', Sherlock had gotten Mycroft to agree to _Oliver!_ next year. His brother was miserable but their parents were delighted. Sherlock counted himself victorious.

He didn't actually expect to enjoy _Swan Lake_. He was looking forward to the Bolshoi Orchestra's rendition of Tchaikovsky's work, but he found he generally preferred ballroom to ballet where dancing was concerned.

He also knew from an announcement in the program that the lead ballerina would not be played by the Bolshoi's prima but by a nameless substitute, which was something of an oddity. _Swan Lake_ traditionally required the lead to dance as both the white and black swan, both of which called for entirely different portrayals. Dancing the lead in this particular ballet was an honor and a recognition of skill.

Sherlock wondered what could've prompted the change and took the opportunity to flex his deductive muscles whilst everyone else mindlessly enjoyed the performance. He was still young, in his mid twenties, but he was already well on his way to honing his methods.

His very specific skill-set.

With his eyes fixed on the stage as the lights dimmed and the curtain rose, it didn't take him long to deduce how 'the substitute' had acquired the lead despite her anonymity. Her technique was flawless. Her movements sinuous and elegant. Her face remarkably expressive. She was a veritable master of her craft.

Her dancing didn't feel choreographed, even though she must've practiced relentlessly to achieve such fluidity. She wasn't absently following the music. She understood it. She was _translating_ it—a sort of conversation between musician and dancer.

As a musician and secretly avid dancer himself, Sherlock admired her talent. And so did Violet Holmes if her awestruck face was anything to go by. He noticed his fellow crowd members were similarly spellbound, but dismissed the effect as unimportant.

Whoever this substitute was, she was clearly talented enough to acquire the lead on her own merits and yet her name was conspicuously missing from both the program and pre-show announcements. She wasn't in it for the recognition. Which of course begged the question, what was she after, if not the glory?

Her dying swan towards the end received a standing ovation and Sherlock's parents insisted on paying their compliments, speculating about the girl's name. It was the Bolshoi's last performance in London, and the dancers were greeting the audience and signing autographs.

Sherlock followed his parents hoping to satisfy his own curiosity.

She was still in costume as the white swan by the time they reached her, but her hair fell in waves over her shoulders. Glossy and red like dried blood. Sherlock would know.

Every inch of her was toned and strong, but that wasn't unusual for a professional dancer. She couldn't have been more than eighteen or nineteen years old, really only a little younger than he was.

He really noticed only one thing out of place. A gold bracelet on her wrist, somewhere between thick and thin. He watched her carefully when his mother asked for her name.

"Anya." Her smile was polite but unreadable.

"Your name wasn't in the program," his father explained. "But you were superb!"

"I'm just a substitute." Anya's nose twitched ever so slightly and a faint crease settled between her brows. Her pale green eyes flicked between all three of them. "Is that sulfur?"

"I'm sorry?" Violet prompted in confusion.

"Yes," Sherlock answered before Anya had a chance to address his mother's question. "I was experimenting," he explained. "You have a very sharp nose."

Anya zeroed in on him and smiled slowly. "All the better to smell you with," she quoted from _Little Red Riding Hood_.

Violet laughed. "That's very clever, dear."

Sherlock didn't miss the predatory edge to the dancer's statement. He was still years away from being a consulting detective but his intelligence was already above and beyond that of the average person. Very little escaped his notice.

"You're a man of science?" Anya continued. Her Russian accent was thick.

"Graduate chemist," Sherlock said by way of explanation, and then felt the need to keep going. "I've also been experimenting with the application of the scientific method to deductive reasoning. I'm calling it 'The Science—"

"You really don't want to encourage him, dear. He'll talk your ear off," his mother interrupted quickly.

"I don't mind," Anya assured her with a quick smile. Her green-eyed gaze drifted back to Sherlock and she lifted two perfect red brows, prompting him to continue. "The Science of… Deduction?"

"Yes, that's right. You're very good—"

"Sherlock," his mother interrupted again, placing a hand on his arm. "We're going to greet the other dancers. Meet us outside when you're done? We're in no rush." Violet squeezed his arm and glanced at the dancer. "Pleasure to meet you, Anya."

Sherlock watched them disappear before turning his attention back to the woman in front of him. Her fingers toyed with a generic marker she'd been using to sign her autographs, but her head was tilted in curiosity

Her lips turned up at the corner. "So how does it work?"

"How does what work?"

"The Science of Deduction," she clarified.

"Oh. Well…" He took a step towards her and turned so that they were standing side by side, facing the crowd. People were still milling about the dancers, offering their praises and asking for autographs. Sherlock chose the line of people waiting for Anya's attention and bent his head low, whispering his deductions in her ear as individual crowd members approached.

"Recently unemployed alcoholic banker. Consider his tie…"

"Avid coin collector with occasional bouts of kleptomania. His pen gives it away…"

"Cheating wife out with her lover. Look at her ring finger…"

Anya listened to his deductions with a growing smile. "You're very good," she echoed after dismissing the cheating wife, peeking at his face. "Should've mentioned you were a genius from the beginning. I don't meet those very often."

Sherlock was caught off-guard by the compliment. He'd grown used to a different sort of reaction from people in general, but most recently at Oxford. His deductions regarding his classmate's nighttime activities in Formal Hall had earned him more than the occasional dirty look. Sebastian Wilkes was particularly nasty about it, calling him a freak both to his face and to his back.

He straightened his very slim body while ruffling his mop of dark curls. "People don't usually call me a genius after I show them what I can do."

"What _do_ they call you?"

"A freak," he deadpanned.

"Idiots." Anya signed one last autograph and turned towards him with an expression he couldn't quite pinpoint. He would've gone with curious if he'd been forced to guess. "What about me?"

He blinked again. "What _about_ you?"

"Tell me something," she prompted.

Sherlock hesitated for all of two seconds before he reached for her wrist. He waited for her to nod her permission and then closed his fingers around it, just below her bracelet. He met her eyes and lifted her hand so that her wrist was level with her eyes but not obstructing her view.

"I know your name is not really Anya," he said quietly, "and that this," he tapped her wrist with a finger, "is not just a bracelet."

Her eyes darted to his fingers lightly grasping her wrist and back up to meet his eyes. "You're taking my pulse," she said without denying or confirming.

"And you're still very good." He met her eyes in challenge. "Tell me your name."

"It's a secret," she answered coyly.

"Then tell me why you're here," he pressed.

"That's a secret too."

"What happened to the prima? Her understudies?"

"They got sick."

"All of them?"

"Must be something in the water." Her smile was slow and predatory.

Sherlock met her stare for stare. His heart was pounding with that strange thrill that sizzled through his veins when he was on to something big, but so was hers. He could feel it fluttering against his fingers even though her face gave nothing away. He just didn't know what it meant. Was she lying? Was she scared? Was she as thrilled by their little game as he was? Perhaps it was all three.

He opened his mouth to say something, but was immediately cut off by a booming male voice that cut through the chattering crowd.

"Anya!"

Sherlock turned his head and caught sight of a tall, broad-shouldered man pushing his way through the crowd. His nose was large and bent towards the end, like he'd taken a punch and never really recovered.

"Anya! Ilya's looking for you," the man continued once he was close enough, practically pushing Sherlock out of the way. His accent was thick too. "Says he wants you to meet someone."

Anya's demeanor remained friendly, but there was an almost imperceptible tightening around her mouth and eyes. "Tell him I'll be right there."

"Hurry," the man barked before melting back into the sea of people now surrounding them.

Sherlock let go of her wrist and immediately felt a pair of small hands closing around the lapels of his suit coat, nearly knocking his slim body off balance. Anya pulled herself up until she was standing on pointe. He steadied himself with his hands on her waist, instinctively drawing her closer when she kissed the corner of his lips.

"Natalia," she whispered in his ear half a second later.

Sherlock didn't have time to say anything else before she whirled away and disappeared, a flash of red moving through the crowd. He could still feel her lips on his skin.

"Natalia…" He breathed to himself.

He wondered if he'd ever see her again.


End file.
